Short hair like Erika Linder, combat boots, strong brows. Maybe I’ll get a new tattoo too, of a blue gun below the collarbone. I’ve always liked guns. This might be my new look.
He’s all for following rules. Girls with long, swishy hair, floral scented with the shampoo he secretly loves to sniff at. Saccharine sweet lips, classy heels and dresses. He doesn’t approve of tattoos.
I respect rules. Rules are there for very good reasons. I used to have long hair I didn’t want to cut. Always thought it would make me look ugly. Well I don’t care anymore, long hair looks grossly flat day after washing anyway. I did wear dresses, but never personally am fond of them.
I entered the salon. “I want my hair up to chin level, like this,” I gestured with my hands, lifting the ends of my hair til they peeked slightly below my ear.
“Are you sure? You may not be used to the length,” the hairdresser warned me. I understand, he probably has gotten a lot of women who come in for drastic hair makeovers, then bawled their eyes out when they got what they wanted.
“Don’t worry, go ahead,” I said assuredly. “My hair will always grow back anyway. If you cut it shorter I wouldn’t have to come back so often either.”
As the hairdresser snipped away, I watched sections of my hair fall. Each strand for every emotion and strength wasted. All those times, months. To be free from all that was truly carthartic. When the haircut was done, I happily paid the hairdresser.
Walking out in my combat boots, I caught the stern light of my own eyes in the mirror. In a tank top, the steely resolve I saw in myself was accentuated. I may not have made the cut to be a soldier as I originally wanted, but this is my life, my hair, and I’m soldiering on, reclaiming myself- and everything that is rightfully mine.
For honor and glory!